


The Trick Is To Keep Breathing

by SimulationTheory



Series: A Question of Time [4]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Infidelity, M/M, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:22:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23176903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimulationTheory/pseuds/SimulationTheory
Summary: After he hears the door close he removes the handset from his pocket and places it on the coffee table, slowly turning it so it’s exactly parallel to the table edge. Roger hasn’t tried Rafa’s regular number - yet - and he’s already drafted and deleted several texts in Google Translate. None of them have seemed quite right, but he wants to be ready.He picks up the phone, powers it up and unlocks it, before placing it carefully back down. He moves over to the window, staring at his own reflection as he counts the notifications.Breathe in, breathe out. Make the call.“Rafa” Roger’s voice is deep and warm in his ear. “I was worried. What’s going on?”Monte-Carlo to Rome, 2019
Relationships: Roger Federer/Rafael Nadal
Series: A Question of Time [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1425508
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	The Trick Is To Keep Breathing

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of pure fiction and any resemblance to events that might possibly have occurred in this way are purely coincidental.
> 
> It follows on directly from the previous work in the series, but you don't necessarily need to have read those. Title from the song of the same name by Garbage.
> 
> _"I won't be the one who's going to let you down_  
>  _Maybe you'll get what you want this time around_  
>  _(the trick is to keep breathing)"_

Breathe in, breathe out.  
His phone vibrates as it rings again, its usual tones reduced to a low rattle as it glows on the bedside table. He doesn’t look at who is calling, it could be one of half a dozen people and he’s not ready, not yet.

Breathe in, breathe out.  
He massages his temples, feeling the faint sheen of sweat even though the air-conditioning in the hotel suite has been turned as cool as it will go. The grey blazer he’d donned moments ago lies discarded across the corner of the bed. Sometimes clothes give him comfort, as if he’s putting on a disguise. Today it had felt like he imagined a straightjacket would. The cold sweat had been what had stopped him from answering the door, and sent him reeling back around towards the bedroom. Whoever was there has since gone, but he knows they’ll be back.

Breathe in, breathe out.  
The dizziness has eased a little now, and he rubs at his eyes and slowly raises his head. Everything looks so normal and he doesn’t understand how.

“Rafa”  
The voice in the corridor is soft but firm. The chirp and slide of an electronic keycard, then the jangle as the chain does its job, only allowing a glimpse inside. A sigh. He lowers his head again, clasps his hands between his knees. Exhales more slowly, trying to ease the thudding in his chest.

“Rafa, please. Let me in”  
It’s Charly. He rocks his foot from side to side and watches as the light catches the polished leather of his shoe. Inwards and outwards. One step and then another. He can do this. It’s not so hard. He knows the lines, can smile on demand. He slides the sole of his shoe against the carpet, then presses down, makes himself feel the tension as his brain instructs his body to straighten. He feels almost lightheaded as he stands.

He opens his eyes, sees Charly holding the door as wide open as it will go, nothing but concern and sympathy in his face. Rafa’s not sure if he is ready for that yet. Not sure if he deserves it. He bends, retrieves the blazer. Maybe the sweat stains won’t be too obvious in the press photos.

“Coming”. His voice sounds steady. Good. His hand still shakes slightly as he unhooks the chain. Charly places a hand lightly under one elbow as he steps out into the hotel corridor, and it’s everything he can do not to repel him and bolt back inside.

“We…” Charly’s voice is low. “We won’t be there long. And we can talk about this when we get back. If you want.”

Rafa shakes his head minutely as he pulls the door shut. “Not today”. He doesn’t know when, but it will have to be soon. When he can find the words. Charly nods, his lips pursed tight, and together they take the elevator down into a balmy Monte Carlo evening, where the tournament director awaits his special guest at the draw ceremony.

Breathe in, breathe out.

\---

“What do you think?” Charly’s voice is barely above a whisper as he hugs the spare racket to his chest. Carlos Costa’s face is inscrutable, eyes tracking Rafa’s movements on the sunlit clay of the practice court.

“I think…” he pauses, tosses a ball to Rafa as a return goes wide, “I think he’s physically almost there. The knee is stable. The pace will come. He just needs match practice”. There’s a smattering of applause from the spectators watching from the wall that overlooks the clay and the sea beyond. He tosses another ball, voice lower now. “The physical part is not the real problem here”

Charly hums low in agreement, both keeping faint smiles on their faces as they watch their charge. They could be talking about the weather, or anything else of little consequence. Cameras capture everything and their every expression could be scrutinised. Carlos tilts the blue bucket he’s holding, peers inside. A dozen balls lay nestled against the fence at their end of the court and he gathers them with brisk efficiency before returning to Charly’s side. Rafa has moved further away now, to wipe his face on one of the white towels he insists on bringing with him. 

“So what do we do?” They both keep looking straight ahead, as the forehands resume. Metronomic, Rafa’s grunts of effort lending an air of normality to the picture. To the untrained eye, all is well.

Carlos exhales. “Give him time. Hope results go his way. Let him know that we’re here for him, when he wants to talk about it.”

“Why now though?” Charly has moved one hand in front of his mouth, as if they’re playing doubles. “What’s different this time? He’s been through worse than this. And he’s nearly there.” A stray ball bounces in front of him and he twists the racket to control it before patting it gently back towards Rafa. The rhythm starts up again. When the response comes from Carlos its so quiet that Charly doesn’t catch it, so he has to ask him to repeat it.

“Some injuries are invisible”

Charly opens his mouth to respond, but no words emerge. Carlos has confirmed what he already thought and felt, but this is something new for them all. Or...maybe it isn’t. Perhaps it’s just the first time that they’ve been clear-eyed enough to see it.  
The cameras whirr, and he works his lips into a smile. Rafa’s comeback from his knee problems at Indian Wells is a good news story for the tournament, and he will not be the one to add to Rafa’s self doubt. Social media is full of photos of their practices and there is already enough speculation amongst the hard core faithful that something is amiss.  
Anyway here he is, towel over his shoulder, water in hand. Looks like practice is over.

\---

Breathe in.

“Game, Fognini. Fognini leads by five games to love, second set, and by one set to love”

He methodically towels himself down, the chatter from the stands not touching him. The earlier baying of the jubilant Italian fans has partly given way now, to the low murmur of a crowd that doesn’t quite believe the rout they are seeing. He’d known from the first game - from that first torturous battle to hold serve - that he’d relinquish the trophy today. He’d fought, of course, he didn’t know any other way, but he hadn’t _believed_.

Rafa takes another swig of water, replacing the bottle slowly and rotating the label. He’s outside of himself now, as if he’s one of the paying spectators watching a spectre in blue and white, the ghost of Rafael Nadal. Despite the sweat soaked kit, he shivers.

“Time”

He sees himself rise slowly from the bench, towel in hand. Taking in the scoreboard that shows Fognini only needs four more points to get this done, to take his place in the final. Silently, he wills that spectre to find something, anything, to fight with. To leave the scene with pride intact. 

He saves three match points and breaks Fognini in the next game, but it’s too little, far too late. 

Breathe out.

\---

They hit the practice courts early in Barcelona. In some ways it feels good to be back in Spain, but with that comes a heavier weight of expectation. Another trophy to defend, this time on the court that bears his name. The team had quit Monte Carlo as soon as possible, nobody had any desire to hang around. The united message was to move on, stay positive, keep building. 

Rafa hasn’t seen Roger since Indian Wells before he had to withdraw from their match, and they text each other daily now. Nothing of any significance most of the time, just a reminder that each is still thinking of the other. Roger is training for his first competitive matches on clay in almost four years, and is now posting excited pictures on social media of rust stained socks alongside clips of him sliding around courts somewhere in Switzerland. Rafa isn’t clear on exactly where, not that it matters. It feels a world away from his isolation in Barcelona.

Every day, one of Roger’s texts is simply a number. It’s the number of days until they are due to meet in Madrid. The traitorous part of Rafa’s brain, the part that has been so vocal lately, wonders what the point of going to Madrid even is.  
He responds to each text with an emoji, as he knows Roger finds them amusing. He’s running low on the smiling ones now.

Rafa’s first match is on Wednesday, which after some early rain showers, is crisp and bright. The team arrives together and they go through their set routine. Breakfast in the players canteen, warm up in the gym, then practice court drills until he’s called from the locker room. If the team notice his detachment they don’t say, instead they remain quietly reassuring. They praise and encourage his progress, punctuating this with observations that’ll help him against the Argentine, Mayer, that he faces. As the afternoon sun warms the sold out grandstands, he strides out to the roar of an adoring public that expects the best, the most passionate, the Raging Bull that never gives in.

But he finds that today, that man just isn’t here.

His timing is all wrong. He’s a step too slow to the ball. His shots are either mid court or way too long, and any remaining trust he had in his game begins to fade. It’s almost as if someone made the court a different size and he doesn’t know where the lines are any more. Mayer is sensing blood and is pushing, pushing.

Despite this Rafa breaks for 5-3, and serves for the set. He’s too hesitant, body language sending out the clear message to his opponent that he can be broken back, and he is. He keeps it together until the tie break and then the same thing happens again, he has set point on his serve and can’t convert it. As he makes his way back to the bench at 6-7, he thinks that maybe he should feel worry, or anger, or determination to put things right in the second set. It should feel like it matters. 

Time slows as he scans the crowd sightlessly, the colourful Spanish flags, the blue billboards lined with vibrant flowers. It’s the same feeling as Monte Carlo, and he gropes for something that’ll anchor him in the present. The umpire calling time sounds muffled but he rises, and as he walks to the corner to hand his towels to the ballgirl he sees his team box. All of them meet his gaze head on, one or two clap softly and murmur encouragement. He suddenly feels keenly that he owes them something more than this. And he’s never backed down from a fight.

Somehow, through a combination of muscle memory, habit and sheer will, he carves out two better sets to take the win. He hears the banalities uttered to the TV crew. The cheers of a relieved crowd, many of whom probably have thought the first set was just a hangover from Monte Carlo.

The PA system tells everyone that he’ll return tomorrow and the single thought that sweeps coldly through his brain, drowning all others in its wake, is _I CAN’T_.

\---

“Maybe I should stop for a while”

Charly almost drops the plate of pasta that he’s unloading from the room service trolley. He places it back down slowly and straightens up, surveying the scene before him. The couch in the suite could easily seat three but Rafa is pressed tight against the arm at one end. He’s picking at a skin tag on his thumbnail, one knee restlessly shaking. Charly waits but he doesn’t look up, nor does he say anything further. It’s not the posture of someone who just cracked a joke. There is no punchline coming here.

After the match, Rafa had been quieter than usual during the cooldown session with Maymo, and had merely grunted when Charly had tried to find positives from the match. He’d shrugged when they asked him if he wanted to dine in the hotel restaurant, so Charly had told the rest of the team to do their own thing and ordered a selection of simple dishes for the room. The hotel chef is excellent and the aromas from the trolley have him salivating, but Rafa still hasn’t moved. 

“Is that what you want?” Charly’s voice is steady, without censure. “Rafa, is it?”

“I don’t know”. Rafa breathes, curling even further into the arm of the couch. He finally looks up and his eyes look haunted, red-rimmed with exhaustion and despair. “I don’t know, Charly”

“Okay”. Charly picks up the plate again and a second that he ordered for himself. Scooping up the cutlery in its neatly folded napkins, he walks around and sets the dishes on the coffee table in front of the couch. He unravels a fork and spoon and holds them out, rapping Rafa lightly on the arm when he doesn’t take them. “First eat, at least a little.”

Rafa opens his mouth to protest but Charly is already holding out the dish for him to take. “You’ll feel worse if you don’t refuel, and you know it”. 

Rafa acquiesces and there’s silence for a moment or two as they eat, side by side. Rafa still has the knee tremor and is holding the plate under his chin rather than on his lap, but Charly doesn’t pull him up for it like he normally might. It’s a tightrope they’re walking right now and he needs Rafa to relax. When he sees that at least half of the meal has been eaten, he takes a breath and turns towards him.

“So I’m not going to tell you what I think”. Rafa doesn’t look at him directly, but he sees his brow arch quizzically. Charly puts his plate down, then takes the cooling dish from Rafa’s hands. 

“No?” Rafa studies the raw skin around his thumbnail with feigned interest, his tone flat. There’s no response from the older man, and eventually Rafa tilts his head, almost afraid of what he might see in Charly’s eyes. He fears some kind of pity, that would weigh even more heavily than everything already does. He reads concern, but also calm. He can deal with that.

A deep breath from Charly. “Because it doesn’t matter right now. It’s not important. What’s important is you. Your health.”

Rafa snorts quietly, shrugs and stretches his legs out in front of him under the coffee table. “The knee is good now, good as it gets these days”

“I don’t mean the knee” Charly’s voice is soft, so soft in the quiet of the suite. “And neither do you”. He exhales, waits and watches. They’re both suspended in stillness for a moment before Rafa’s shoulders droop, and he rasps out a single dry sob into his hands before Charly can reach him. He wraps his arms around him as best he can, presses his forehead to Rafa’s temple as the tears seep through.

“It’s ok. It’s ok” he tightens his grip a little, blinks his own tears away. “I’m here. Rafa, i’m here”. 

\---

The silence after Charly finally leaves is empty, heavy with possibilities. They’ve tentatively agreed to meet for breakfast in the hotel and work it out from there, even if Charly insists that it’s for Rafa alone to decide if he will play. If he can play. Right now, here in the smothering dark, he doesn’t know what his answer will be.

He’s left the door to the lounge ajar, so a sickly light illuminates the shadows on the bedroom ceiling. He thinks he sees familiar shapes, as his mind replays elements of the earlier conversation.

“Have you talked to anybody else about this?” Charly had been gentle with his questions, no judgement or accusation. 

“No. I...Mery is coming tomorrow, as we agreed. I will wait until the tournament ends for me, before we have any discussion. It’s not easy.”

Charly had pursed his lips together. “Take your time. Remember those who love you just want to help, however they can. You know?”

He’d waited, but Rafa had just nodded silently. He’d begged his leave soon after. “Anytime you need, you call, ok?” his voice muffled as Rafa slid home the bolt on the door and flipped the privacy switch.

Only now, lying here, chasing shadows and sleep, does that last comment register. He meant Roger. 

The realisation crowds out everything else, and the sudden craving to hear Roger’s voice is like a lead weight in his chest. He flips onto his side and reaches for their phone. Three texts and a missed call.  
No. He can’t. Not right now. He can’t burden Roger with this. He has to see it through alone. Slowly replacing the handset with the messages still unread, the glowing digits of the bedside clock mockingly inform him that his alarm call is only four hours away.

The shadows on the ceiling continue to twist and dance as he watches, tears gathering silently at the corners of his eyes again. Until his body finally takes pity on him and he dozes.

_23:00 11 ;)_

_23:05 Long match today. How is the knee? Rx_

_00:41 MISSED CALL_

_00:43 I watched the highlights. Rafa. Please call me. xxx_

They eat breakfast in the executive lounge at the hotel. As he takes his seat, Rafa asks what time the car is picking them up to take them to the tournament, and that way they know that for today at least, they’re carrying on. Rafa exchanges a long look with Charly, who smiles encouragingly as he lists the familiar traits of Ferrer’s game. If Rafa beats him, it’ll be Ferrer’s last competitive match at the Barcelona Open before retirement. Emotions will be running high.

He still hasn’t read Roger’s texts, or returned the call. Doing that would breach the dam he has so carefully constructed in his head, over those dark hours just before dawn, and he needs it to hold. At least for today. One hour at a time.

The match with Ferrer provides a respite. Long respected rivals, they know each other’s games well and despite the unseasonal drizzle the match is a fitting occasion. It has a comforting rhythm that Rafa knows he will miss. Their embrace at the net at the end is warm, and as David thanks him, Rafa feels something other than empty exhaustion. He acknowledges the sensation cautiously, not wanting it to slip away and leave him in darkness again.  
Mery is in the players restaurant when he returns there, as is his mother. There are hugs, congratulations, a hive of chatter he can immerse himself in. He is grateful for their presence, their unwavering support. But it also makes it harder to find time alone. They think they’re helping, by being there for him. And they are. But their constant attention isn’t going to fix anything, and there’s still someone else he has to let into the melee. Roger.

His mobile phone remains switched off. He’s not sure, yet, what he is scared of. Not sure he can articulate it.

Mery is gracious and leaves their suite without protest, when he explains he has some calls to make that evening. She takes an overnight bag with her. He didn’t ask her to, and something aches in him at the sight. After he hears the door close he removes the handset from his pocket and places it on the coffee table, slowly turning it so it’s exactly parallel to the table edge. Roger hasn’t tried Rafa’s regular number - yet - and he’s already drafted and deleted several texts in Google Translate. None of them have seemed quite right, but he wants to be ready.

He picks up the phone, powers it up and unlocks it, before placing it carefully back down. He moves over to the window, staring at his own reflection as he counts the notifications. 

Breathe in, breathe out. Make the call.

“Rafa” Roger’s voice is deep and warm in his ear. “I was worried. What’s going on?”

“Roger, I’m sorry” Rafa hopes his voice sounds steady but his heart is thumping in his throat and he has to sit back down before his legs give way.

“Why? What is it? Is it the knee?”

Rafa swallows, not sure how to begin. “The knee...the knee is okay”

“Oh thank god” Roger’s voice is low. Rafa finds himself idly wondering where he is calling from. What he can see as they talk. As if reading his mind, there’s a rustling on the other end of the line. “Hang on. Let me switch to video”

Roger hangs up and seconds later, the video call request comes through. Rafa smooths his hair, thumb hovering over the green button. As soon as Roger sees him, he’ll know.

Sure enough, Roger’s sunny smile as Rafa accepts the call quickly fades. “Oh, sweetheart” he breathes, hazel eyes raking over the screen in obvious dismay. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Rafa shakes his head and exhales heavily, the words he has rehearsed deserting him.

“Has something happened? Is everyone there ok?”

“Everyone is good, Roger” he sees the relief and then puzzlement in his lover’s face. “Everyone is well” . The smile that accompanies this is more like a grimace and he knows it won’t fool Roger for a moment.

“Then what…?” Roger shifts, runs a slim hand through his hair. “I mean, I watched the matches. I know it was a struggle against Mayer but that would be normal when you’re still coming back from injury. You did so well to get to the semi finals in Monaco, really, you did, and its one step at a time, you know? So i guess - “

“Roger, stop” Roger does stop, eyes widening, and Rafa feels his skin prickle. “Please.”

There’s silence for a moment, Rafa can’t meet his eyes without losing his composure so he studies the ceiling, heaving in another ragged breath. He has to do this. He needs to do this.

“When the injury happened at Indian Wells, and we couldn’t play the match”

“Yes” Roger’s voice is low and regretful

“I think...I think that what if this was the last chance, you know?”

Despite himself, Roger chuckles. “No, why did you think that? We will play one another again, of course we will”

“But maybe not”

“Rafa, the knee is okay now, you said it yourself, and you’re competing - “

“I am not talking about the knee”

“...I don’t understand”

And here it is. He can either brush it off and say it’s nothing, or he can utter something he’ll never be able to take back, to his biggest tennis rival. It could change everything.

“I think that this time, maybe I cannot come back. Is possible that it is too much. For my head”

He finally looks at the handset, meeting Roger’s eyes as he finishes. Watches as his quizzical expression pulls down into something akin to horror, as he begins to finally see.

“Rafa, you’re...you’re one of the strongest people I know. You - “

“Si! Everyone always thinks this! That it is normal that there is injury, but that I will work and work and then come back and every time is more a problem and I’m tired, Rogi. I’m so. Tired.”

“Shhh” Roger looks stricken, running a finger down the screen as if he can somehow transmit the caress to Rafa’s face.

“...and i think why? Why do I do this again and again, who do I do this for? Is it for me? Because I do not know” He’s addressing the ceiling again now, shoulders pulled tight with tension as he gestures.

“I had no idea” Roger’s voice is barely above a whisper. He rubs at his lips with his hand and looks away.  
“No-one has the idea. Charly, he knows something now, Carlos, my team. But they do not understand because I do not understand” he pauses. “And I think I should not say this to Roger, because maybe he does not understand, also. And now he thinks I am weak”

Roger’s eyes snap back to the screen. “Rafa, baby, no. I don’t think that. You can’t believe that”

“Baby” Rafa huffs out a laugh, a horrid breathy sound in the quiet of the room. “This is how you see me”

“Oh for fucks sake” Roger drags a hand through his hair again. “I call you that because...because...shit, Rafa, do we have to do this now? I mean it to show that I love you. That...you’re mine. Not because I think you can’t handle stuff. Are you listening to me?”

Rafa bites his lip. He knows he’s being churlish now, deflecting. 

“Rafael. Will you listen to me” A nod. “This isn’t about us, okay? Whatever this is, it has nothing to do with how I feel about you. It does not change that at all. And maybe you think I don’t understand and yeah, you’ve only just told me, and it’s a lot. I get that. But I know how it feels when people think we can do everything. That we always win. That it’s easy. Because they don’t see what we do over and over and over so that we can do these things, so that it does look easy. “ Roger sighs. “I have those doubts too. What if its not enough? What am I trying to prove, you know?”

Rafa’s head bows, a tremor running through him as he cradles the phone.

“I’m not saying it’s normal to feel like you do, but it’s...natural. I guess. Everyone has a limit. But I think you underestimate where your limit is”

“Why” Rafa sniffs, rubbing at a rogue tear with the heel of his palm.

“Because you played today. And today was better than yesterday. And that was better than Monte Carlo. You’re still fighting. You haven’t walked away”

“You think what everyone will say if I walk away. If I give up. If I quit.”

“Rafa” Roger’s voice is soft and sad “One day we’ll have to walk away” he tries to smile, and in that moment Rafa misses him so much it hurts. “But don’t leave yet. There’s still so much you can achieve. That we can achieve.” Roger smiles “Is that selfish of me?”

Rafa feels lighter, somehow. That he has been heard, and is believed. “No, is not selfish. Is good, no? And I think is selfish of me to say all this to you.”

“No, liebchen. It isn’t, at all. Oh, Rafa. Tell me about it. If it helps.”

Rafa inhales deeply, nods at the empty room, and tells him.

\---

When he falls in the semi-final to Thiem it isn’t a surprise, but nor does it feel like a failure either. The team secure a late night flight back to Majorca, and Rafa wakes on the day of the final feeling more positive than he has in a while. He’d still rather have been competing for a trophy, but at least the way forward doesn’t feel quite as daunting. A couple of days on the boat relaxing, before Madrid. And Roger. He smiles and stretches luxuriously at the thought.

Mery doesn’t stir as he picks up his phone to check the time, frowning at the notification on screen. When she wakes shortly afterwards to find the bed empty, she follows the sound of Rafa’s increasing agitation to the kitchen, where he is pacing up and down. 

“Tell MAPFRE no, they can get someone else for their Q&A. And a trip to a museum? Why? What’s the point? Zverev can do it, can’t he, he’s defending champion...well, there’s other Spanish players? Yeah, yeah I know. We’ve been doing this long enough now. Sure. OK. Well at least try, please?”

He stabs at the screen to end the call and tosses the handset onto the countertop. Mery finishes pouring two glasses of orange juice and holds one out to him.

“Benito?” she ventures

Rafa takes the glass and downs half of its contents swiftly. “He mailed through my schedule for Madrid”

“Well that is his job” 

“I know that. But sometimes he seems to forget I need to train. And rest. And actually play tennis. Listen” he grabs the handset back off the counter and reels off the engagements, tone growing increasingly frustrated. “I’m surprised he remembered to schedule time for me to eat and sleep”

Mery treads cautiously. “I think...he thought it would be good for you if you were busy. And it doesn’t sound much different to what you’d normally do. Feli wants to make a good impression in his first year and I guess he thought you’d want to help him out?”

“Feli knows I’ll support him”. Rafa scrolls up and down the list of engagements again. “Even though I don’t see what a photoshoot in Museo del Prado has to do with anything at all”

Mery laughs and he glares at her. “Come on” she pats his arm, her tone conciliatory. “It’s all the sort of stuff you’ve done before, it’ll be ok. And we’ll be there”. 

Rafa freezes. “I thought you were staying back at the Academy this week”

“Well I was, so was Ana. But after Barcelona…” she sees his expression. “You don’t want me there”. It’s a statement rather than a question.

“I’ve just told you how crazy the schedule is. I’d barely see you. And you don’t like sitting around waiting for me anyway”

She presses her lips together, looking out past his shoulder at the gardens and the shimmering water beyond. Her response, when it comes, is deceptively soft. “You’ll see him then. Roger”. Rafa’s eyes darken perceptibly as she shakes her head. “You don’t have to be all evasive about it. I know he’s going to be there. And I thought we agreed it was easier if you told me instead of…” she gestures in frustration. “Instead of trying to make it look like altruism on your part or something.”

“I can’t do this now.” Rafa picks up his glass and downs the rest of the juice. “If anyone needs me, i’ll be on the boat. “ he raises an eyebrow. “If that’s ok with you”

“Rafa, you know I didn’t mean…”

“Don’t. Not today. Come to Madrid if you want, it doesn’t matter. Benito has made damn sure that I won’t have time to see anyone”. 

As she rinses the glasses in the sink she hears the side door slam. It’s long after dark when he returns, and he accepts her embrace without a word.

\---

“Thank you for making time for this, I know how hectic things are” Feliciano Lopez grasps Rafa’s hand warmly, his suit jacket and spectacles a contrast to the tracksuits everyone else is wearing.

Rafa laughs. “No problem. Of course I’d be here for Ferru. And you. You look the part, I’m impressed”

Feli swats at his arm, but Rafa can tell the compliment has landed. The tunnel leading out onto the sunlit Manolo Santana court is crowded with photographers, journalists and tournament officials. Madrid is to be David Ferrer’s final tournament of the ATP tour, and they’re here to mark the occasion. Once the court is ready, as the new Tournament Director it’s Feli who will lead them out for a photoshoot. Several other players are here but Rafa can only really make out the giant frame of Del Potro who is exchanging pleasantries with Charly.

Carlos Costa squeezes through the melee to join them and after more handshakes and backslapping, Feli heads out onto the pristine clay to orchestrate proceedings. Clipboard in hand, he’s relishing the spotlight, all nerves forgotten.

“Do you fancy that one day?” Carlos seems genuinely curious, and Rafa considers it for a moment, before grinning. “Not really. Too much stress and paperwork. I prefer to keep things simple. Less politics”

Carlos smiles wryly and is set to respond when there’s a flurry of movement. All of the grounds staff have been called to line up outside, and as they file out only a few select players remain. Rafa sees a couple of his fellow Spaniards, but as he takes a step forward to greet them, a pale green hooded jacket at the rear of the corridor catches his eye. The silhouette is unmistakable and Rafa feels his mouth go dry.

Roger glides through the group, greeting everyone with practiced ease, and when he looks up and sees Rafa, his smile is dazzling. But before they can reach one another the group has been called, and Carlos ushers him gently in the direction of the court.

They stand by side - Feli is canny enough to place his star attractions front and centre - with hands behind their backs. The urge to touch one another is overwhelming, and Roger’s eyes sparkle as he turns his full gaze on Rafa. He’s murmuring banalities about the Madrid traffic and how great it is to be back on clay, and Rafa is transfixed. By the dimples in his cheeks as he smiles. How he smoothes at his eyebrow before clasping his hands behind him again like an errant schoolboy. When his eyes squeeze shut as he laughs, a throaty giggle that seems to bubble up from deep within. And the voice. Rafa has always liked Roger’s voice, and as Ferrer’s arrival is announced and they all turn to applaud, he realises that it’s because he associates it with safety. Security. Belonging.

“So I guess your schedule is as crazy as mine, huh?” Roger bumps his shoulder gently against his as they file back down the tunnel. They’re still surrounded so keeping things neutral, even though the other players instinctively give them space when they talk. 

Rafa rolls his eyes as they both retrieve their phones from their pockets. “When Benito send it I thought it was a joke, no? The museum, the sponsor interviews, it’s a lot”

“I watched some of the MAPFRE event online” Rafa turns to Roger but he’s looking straight ahead, a faint smirk on his face. “Didn’t understand any of it really, my Spanish hasn’t improved” he chuckles. “But the cake looked good”

“Si. That part, I like very much”. They’re underground now in the maze of corridors under the main courts. It’s a hive of activity and somewhere in the hubbub, their teams will be waiting. Roger senses this and touches Rafa’s arm lightly, prompting both of them to stop walking.

“Did Benito leave you any free time in the evenings?” Roger’s voice is low. Rafa looks down at his phone again, afraid of what he might say if he meets Roger’s eyes. “I mean, it’s the same for me, Tony had me meeting the mayor, of all people, and there’s extra practices because of the altitude and so long without clay but…” he trails off and sighs in frustration. “Guess not, then”

Rafa looks up, his expression miserable. “Roger, you know I want, but every day there is so much, until Saturday i think. Benito plans that I reach the final” he snorts and shakes his head.

“Which you will.” Roger’s voice is sharper than intended, and a couple of passers-by glance at the two of them, stationary in the middle of the crowded corridor. Roger looks around, and when he looks back his smile is what Rafa thinks of as his ‘PR Face’. The one Roger wears when he’s determined that everyone should be deceived into thinking that all is well.”I don’t know if I will still be here then. But it’s not so long until Paris, hmmm?”

Over Roger’s shoulder, Rafa sees Charly and Benito spot him, and knows they only have seconds to complete this conversation. He nods. “OK. Saturday, if we are here then. Paris, if we are not”

Roger turns, sees Rafa’s team approaching. He turns back with that same smile, and leans forward. 

“Je t’aime” Roger’s breath is warm in Rafa’s ear, the whispered words burn and he swallows hard as Roger pats his shoulder and strides away. It takes everything he has not to look around after him, and he pastes a smile on his face at Charly’s thoughtful expression.

\---

On Friday, despite having two match points, Roger loses in the quarter final to Thiem. Rafa reads his text of apology before taking the court for his match against Wawrinka. Paris it is then. Nothing left here but to focus on the task ahead, and think about that later. Much later.

He destroys Stan on his way to a record 70th Masters 1000 semi-final, and even with the ache of disappointment at Roger’s departure he sleeps well that night. Tsitsipas the next day will be another stern test and he needs to be as rested as he can, so he doesn’t pick up his texts until his alarm wakes him.

He unlocks the handset blearily, squinting against the shafts of sunlight that are already winding their way around the curtains into the room. Then he frowns. There’s a text from Roger, who wouldn’t normally use Rafa’s regular number. He clicks on it before the words register, and when they do he can barely breathe.

_05:31 See you in Rome._

\---

“Your move” Charly hands the dice to Rafa, who studies the board earnestly. The team has managed to find a free table in a corner of one of the player lounges, and the detritus of bags, plates of food and half empty cola bottles has marked the space as theirs for as long as they need it. Which could be quite some time. 

Maymo sits down with them then, a piece of paper in his hand. “Latest order of play, nothing happening for at least another two hours”

“They’re going to have to start calling matches off soon” Charly gazes out of the window to his right as Rafa rolls the dice and moves his counter. “Hey, how many places was that?

Rafa’s eyebrow shoots up almost into his hair. “Five, and I didn’t cheat if that’s what you’re trying to suggest” He follows Charly’s gaze out of the window, at the slate grey skies and persistent rain blanketing the Foro Italico. “I think it’s a waste of time, keeping us here. That looks set in for the day. No way are we going to play”

“Would you rather play twice tomorrow?” Charly leans back in his chair. “The schedule here is so tight that they have to try to fit something in. Or they’ll have to give them their money back” he gestures at the window again. Outside in the gloom, multi coloured umbrellas mill around like insects, as the spectators that haven’t already sought shelter hurry between the concession stands.

“Same problem for everyone” Rafa empties another bottle of coke, and pushes his chair back, one eye already on the courtesy refrigerators across the room.

“Don’t drink too much more of that”, Maymo counsels, head tilting as he contemplates the parchis board. “If play gets pushed back again we have a gym session scheduled. Need to keep everything loose” he almost shouts, as Rafa is already weaving his way through the tables.

He hears Roger’s laugh as he extracts another couple of bottles from the cooler. As he turns back towards his table he sees the team on the other side of the room. They make eye contact and Roger nods minutely, biting his lip. It’s Rafa’s turn to throw when he sits back down, and he’s so rattled that one of the dice ends up flying across the floor. 

Outside, it continues to rain.

Play gets pushed back again so Maymo has him on the recumbent bikes, to keep the joints warm. The gym is full of bored, impatient, frustrated players and tempers are starting to fray. They’d wanted time on one of the treadmills but none were available, and after a second coach comes to peer at the cycle screen to try and figure out how long he’s been on there, Rafa has had enough. 

The locker room is not much better. Despite the lack of matches, players are still showering after their workouts, while others are sitting with their teams in rival clusters. It’s fetid and claustrophobic and as Rafa pushes his way out into the corridor, Seve and Roger are making their way in. All tight smiles and nods of greeting, and as they pass one another Roger runs a finger down Rafa’s forearm, feather-light. On the return to the lounge he retraces the path of that touch, and the knot deep in his stomach winds ever tighter.

\---

“What a waste of a day” Charly sighs as the tournament car pulls to a halt outside the hotel, and they unload the bags of rackets and kit from the trunk. It’s still raining a little, and they hurry to the lobby and shelter. “We should have left hours ago” he smiles. “All the good restaurants will be booked up now”

He glances at Rafa, who is scrolling on his phone while absently gnawing at his thumbnail. “What do you think?”

Rafa pauses for a moment, and when he looks up there’s a faint blush to his cheeks. “I think we’ve spent the whole day together, sitting around and eating, and right now I just want to chill out, watch some tv maybe. Long day tomorrow” The whole team is looking at him now, and he meets each of their looks in turn, almost daring them to disagree. 

Charly is about to say something but Carlos places a hand on his arm. “Perhaps you’re right. You’ve got Chardy and Basilashvili tomorrow, no telling how that will go. So you should rest up”. He sees Charly’s mouth twitch and fixes his gaze pointedly on Rafa again. “Early night, best thing you can do”

“Well then” Charly steps forward and hands Rafa his kit bag. “If you say so”. They lock eyes again and Rafa is first to look away, taking the bag and already rummaging in it for his room keycard. “You need to do what you feel is best for you”. 

Rafa’s hand stills inside the bag, but Charly doesn’t say anything further, instead tapping Maymo on the arm as they turn towards the elevators. They’re already discussing where they could go for dinner and he feels a momentary pang of guilt.  
He takes a separate elevator to his suite, and stares out of the ornate window at the grey evening skies over the city for quite a while.

\---

The evening drags, time suspended as Rafa waits. There’s nothing on TV that holds his attention, so he scrolls through all his favourite Instagram sites, while sprawled on the generous couches in the lounge area. Even with the windows open to the street the suite is oppressively hot and he takes a long shower, scrubbing almost obsessively. Wrapping himself in the monogrammed hotel bathrobe he rifles through his wardrobe, before settling on shorts and t-shirt. Then it’s back to the couch again, mindlessly channel-surfing and endlessly checking his phone for new messages.

It’s almost midnight when he hears the soft knocking, and he turns off the tv, tossing the remote to the floor. “One moment please” he calls out as loud as he dares, checking his reflection and smoothing anxiously at his hair before he reaches the door. A glance through the peephole shows a tall figure, mint green hood shrouding his face. Breathe in.

Roger steps quickly and quietly through the door, standing patiently as Rafa closes it behind him and attaches the security chain with trembling fingers. When Rafa turns to greet him, his ready smile fades at Roger’s expression. Pain, longing and something that looks very like anger. Silently they regard one another, their already laboured breathing the only sound in the still of the small hours.

Unnerved, Rafa reaches out a hand and that breaks the spell. Roger strides forward and shoves him against the wall. Pinning him there with his chest as he crushes their mouths together. Rafa gasps, the faint metallic tang of blood as Roger presses bruising kisses to his mouth. Licking into him, body grinding against his and Rafa moans, his hands moving to grab at Roger’s hips. He feels like a parched man finally being offered water and he whimpers as he takes a breath. Calloused palms grip his arms, the hood that Roger is still wearing blocking out everything except the sight, the smell, the taste of him.

Then just as suddenly Roger wrenches himself away, and Rafa’s hands fall limply to his sides in confusion. He licks nervously at his lips which are already swollen. There’s something dangerous about Roger’s mood and it’s not what he expected.

Breathing harshly, Roger lowers the hood of his jacket and unzips it. Somewhere outside of himself, Rafa sees that his hands are shaking slightly. He shucks it off and lets it drop to the floor, before reaching forward and grabbing a handful of Rafa’s t-shirt in his fist. Instead of pulling, he presses. Literally keeping Rafa at arms length. Slowly, slowly he turns his head, taking in the room. The couches, coffee tables. Ornate lamps and gilded mirrors. The faint light from the bedroom door. And beyond, the juliette balcony framed by the windows, still open to the muggy breath of the Rome night.

“Very nice” Roger nods almost to himself, still looking over towards the window. “Classy”. He bites his lip, still not meeting Rafa’s eyes. “Have you stayed here before?”

Rafa shrugs, thrown by this line of questioning. “Yes. Last two years”

“In a room like this one?”

He frowns, trying to recall. Their whole lives are endless faceless hotel rooms. “I think so. Roger, what - “

“So where did you ask her? Was it here?”

“I…” oh god. Now he understands.

“By the window, maybe? Looking out at the city? Very romantic. Or perhaps you were in bed?”

When Roger looks back around at Rafa’s stricken face, he’s smiling but his eyes glitter, whiskey gold in the lamplight. “Please” Rafa whispers in contrition and Roger closes the distance between them. He reaches out to cup Rafa’s face in his hands, gently this time, and as Rafa opens his mouth to him eagerly he tastes the salt sting of silent tears. 

They move closer until once again they’re pressed from thigh to shoulder, Rafa’s hands rubbing soothingly at Roger’s sides. Rafa kisses back fiercely. He wants to show how much he missed Roger, how much he loves and needs him. How much past and future events don’t matter when they’re here, now. When everything he wants is in his arms.  
Roger gasps a breath and pulls back a little, smoothing at the lines around Rafa’s eye with his thumb in a kind of wonderment. Rafa wants to reassure him but Roger shushes him with a little hiss before pressing their foreheads together.

“Whatever happens” his breath across Rafa’s lips is hot, rogue tears still streaking his cheeks. “Whatever happens, you’re mine.” Rafa tries to nod agreement but Roger still grips his head. “Mine”

“Yes” Rafa feels a sudden sickening fear that this could be a farewell. “Yes, Roger. Siempre”

Roger chokes out a sob and releases him, hands moving instead to Rafa’s t-shirt which he drags roughly over his head. As Rafa straightens he reaches for him, only for Roger to grab his wrists.

“No. Don’t touch me. Not right now. Not until I say” There’s still a desperation to Roger’s voice, but with an undercurrent that Rafa recognises and welcomes. His arms are pinned to the wall now, hands level with his shoulders as if in supplication. He closes his eyes and groans as Roger leaves a trail of bruising kisses along the vein in his neck, down to the collarbone where Roger sucks hard enough to mark him. Normally they’re careful not to leave marks but today he wants them. He wants to look in the mirror and see proof of another man’s devotion.

Roger grazes his teeth along the bone before planting a kiss on his shoulder. “Turn round”. He releases his grip on Rafa’s wrists and he turns. The wall is cool against his palms as he braces against it and waits. There’s a rustle of fabric behind him and then Roger’s bare chest is flush against his back. Roger’s fingers dig into his obliques as he pulls Rafa back against him. Teeth nip at his shoulder before licking and soothing that same spot, over and over. Rafa can’t help but dip his spine a little, chasing the friction. One of Roger’s hands hooks deftly into the waistband of his shorts and pulls sharply down, leaving him fully naked and shaking with anticipation.

A nudge from Roger’s knee and he’s spreading his legs, almost crying when Roger nips at his neck one final time before pulling away from him. Twisting around, he sees that Roger has taken a step back. He’s still in track pants, the front damp with arousal, gazing at Rafa as if he’s trying to commit this whole scene to memory.

“Por favor” Rafa whispers, and Roger’s eyes meet his, red rimmed and blazing. He nods and drops to his knees.

The first touch of Roger’s lips at the base of his spine has him keening. Roger holds his hips almost delicately, thumbs circling at the top of Rafa’s ass. Slowly, reverentially, his hands slide around, as he laps at the sweat beading the small of Rafa’s back. He pushes with his palms then, spreads him wide, and Rafa’s holding his breath, waiting for his lips, his tongue, any contact he can get.

But while Roger’s breath ghosts over the sensitive flesh, he doesn’t touch him and Rafa whines in frustration. Pushing back, over his shoulder he can see Roger almost frozen, his eyes clouded over and again he’s gripped with the fear that something is changing, that Roger can’t deal with this - with them - any more. The thought rips at his gut and he can’t quite stifle the sob.

Roger’s head whips up at the sound. Whatever he sees in Rafa’s expression seems to settle something in his mind, and he gets to his feet again.

“Don’t look at me” his voice like broken glass and Rafa faces the wall again, eyes squeezed shut. He hears the click of a bottle cap before Roger’s left arm snakes around him. Sweat damp torso flush against his back and the lightest touch. Circling, teasing. Then Roger bites down hard on his neck as he pushes two slick fingers in and fuck, its overwhelming.

“Yes. Roger, please. So good. More” he grunts, fists clenched, as Roger crooks his fingers inside him. Words trailing off to incoherence as he hits the right spot again and again. Roger’s breath hot in his ear, hard length rubbing against his left hip through the track pants. He could come just like this but he wants more. Wants to give Roger more. If this is some kind of farewell, what is there to hide from now?

“I need…” he’s not sure how to articulate it. “Roger, I need you to fuck me”. Sharp breath in his ear, those clever fingers still twisting slowly in and out, in and out. “I need to feel it”

“Liebchen, I will” Roger’s breath ghosts over his ear, the stretch as he slowly adds a third finger making them both groan. “You’ll feel it”. He licks at the sweat pooling at Rafa’s collarbone, smooths soothing patterns on his torso.

Rafa could so easily lose it right here but he still doesn’t think Roger understands. “Now?” he breathes, and turns his head. “You say not to look but I need to say to you, I want to feel you. You. Me entiendes?”

Nodding, Roger slowly withdraws his hand and steps back, reaching into the track pants pocket as he goes to pull them down.

“No!” Rafa’s voice is louder than he intends and Roger freezes, the condom wrapper half torn. _“Roger”_ he looks pointedly at Roger’s shaking hands and then his eyes, round with dawning understanding.

“You mean..” Roger stands there, pants around his thighs, and Rafa can’t bear it. He grabs the condom out of Roger’s hand and drops it, before lifting his fingers tentatively to Roger’s face. “You can?” he whispers and Roger’s eyes darken before they flutter shut under the caress.  
Beats of stillness before Roger shuffles forward, crowding Rafa against the wall once more. Rafa places his palms lightly against the paint, closes his eyes. The distant sounds from the street below. The click of the bottle cap again and the faint musk of Roger’s sweat. Roger is so close behind him that his skin prickles at the proximity, craving that next touch.

Roger’s left hand comes up to cover his against the wall. He waits, then groans as Roger slowly, gently runs the head of his cock down the cleft of Rafa’s ass. Once, twice. When he speaks, his voice is shaky. “Rafa. Liebchen. Are you sure”  
“Si’ Rafa hisses. Then, an afterthought. “You trust me?”

A pause, an intake of breath. “Always. Yes”. The head of Roger’s cock pushes slowly, slowly against him and he breathes out, yields to it. He can feel the heat through the burning stretch and spreads his legs further, trying to take more of Roger in. 

“Rafa, fuck...if you’re not sure, we need to stop now. Because this isn’t...I can’t…” Roger is breathless, shaking with the effort of holding still. Even now, even now his first thought is for Rafa, and Rafa is dizzy with it. He closes his eyes, whispers Roger’s name, and pushes back “Yes...oh. _Yes_ ”

Roger grunts, low and guttural, and his hands move to Rafa’s hip bones. It takes a moment of steadying themselves but he soon sets up a smooth slow rhythm. His fingers dig into the tanned flesh, tightening in resistance whenever Rafa tries to increase the pace. He whines in frustration, turning to see Roger, mouth open and wet, eyes riveted on him.

“That’s it, liebchen” if there’s a slight tremor in his tone, Rafa affects not to notice. “Look at me. Look at us. Here. Remember it”

He glances around but everything is out of focus. Except Roger, entreating him to look, and how can he do anything else when Roger is all he has ever wanted?

As if Roger can hear his thoughts, he tells Rafa again in a honeyed whisper that he belongs to him, then snaps his hips forward. Rafa cries out, bent forward with his forearms on the wall as Roger pounds into him. Fingers leaving a bloom of bruises that Rafa will have to explain later but he doesn’t care, every sense is overloaded. He feels the pleasure low in his gut, coiling, building. Roger is moaning with every thrust now, breathing ragged and Rafa can feel that he’s close. He moves one arm from the wall, needing to touch himself but Roger’s sharp breathless rebuke stops him short. 

Roger’s nails dig in as he thrusts once, twice more before he’s coming. It’s Rafa’s name that spills from his lips as his sweat slick torso slumps against Rafa’s back, one arm coming up to encircle him. Roger’s breath hot in his ear, his name over and over. Reverential. Adoring. Driving out thought of anything else. Anyone else.

He whimpers as Roger pulls away, and slowly turns to face him. He’s painfully hard, skin sticky, legs trembling. Roger has given him what he demanded, at long last. For a moment he fears for them both, but as he finally meets Roger’s eyes he sees no regret there. Instead he sees hunger and longing and such a terrible sorrow that he’s not sure he can bear it. “Por favor” he whispers, and closes his eyes.

Roger backs him against the wall again and reaches down with a calloused hand. Resting their foreheads together he tightens his grip, half a dozen sweat slick strokes and Rafa comes, gasping into Roger’s mouth. Clutching at Roger for support, the skin fever hot under his touch. When Roger raises his palm, the glow of the lamps in the lounge gives the milky liquid an almost amber hue. Never taking his eyes from Rafa’s, Roger takes some onto his tongue, before pulling him in for the kiss.

He doesn’t know how long they remain standing there, all soft caresses and whispered words of mutual comfort, before he starts shivering and Roger takes him to bed.

\---

When the alarm wakes him, he knows Roger has gone before he even opens his eyes. He retrieves the phone - no messages - and grants himself another half an hour before facing the world. Half an hour alone in the bed where, one year ago, he asked a question he knew he had to ask.

It _was_ the same room. He’d chosen it deliberately, this year.

Breathe out.


End file.
